


True Terror

by Twice_before_Friday



Series: Bad Things Happen (again and again and again) [4]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Defenestration, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:42:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25406341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twice_before_Friday/pseuds/Twice_before_Friday
Summary: For the bad things happen square: defenestrationWhat if, when Malcolm threw himself from his window in the midst of a night terror, he hadn't woken up?
Series: Bad Things Happen (again and again and again) [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1741687
Comments: 14
Kudos: 83





	True Terror

"You changed the locks?" Jessica shouts to the heavens, or, perhaps slightly less dramatically, up to Malcolm's apartment. Though acutely aware that passersby on the street are apt to assume she's little more than a jilted lover, she cares not one whit. That Malcolm would presume to lock her out of her _own building_ has her nearly blinded with a rage that leans far more to irritation than anger, not that she'll let Malcolm off the hook any easier once he finally deigns to buzz her up.

She slips her phone from her Burberry purse, quickly dialing the number belonging to the cause of her most constant source of stress and worry.

"Malcolm, in response to your…" She pauses ever so slightly, discarding a number of far more colourful word choices before settling on, "security upgrade, I would like to remind you that you and that _wretched_ parakeet are merely tenants of the building that _I own_." She pulls the phone away from her face as she raises her voice, pouring every ounce of her annoyance into her cry of, "Open the door!"

The crash of shattering glass from above takes her completely by surprise, her head shooting reflexively up, only to be met with a cascading waterfall of glass shards. With a startled yelp, she brings her arms up to protect her face from the jagged pieces as they sprinkle around her, tinkling and smashing into tiny fragments as they meet the concrete. 

When she no longer feels the patter of shards on the sleeve of her jacket, she cautiously lowers her arm and looks up to find Malcolm dangling limply from the window by one arm. Her heart stops for several beats before it begins to gallop faster than a Triple Crown thoroughbred champion.

She immediately catches sight of the restraint around his left wrist, leather strap hanging uselessly down beside his body, and she's able to surmise that the only thing keeping him from plummeting to the ground is the matching restraint on his right. 

Once upon a time, she had cautioned Malcolm that his nightmares required a seatbelt, and right now she's never been more thankful for those Godforsaken restraints, knowing that one thin strip of leather is all that's standing between Malcolm and certain death.

"Malcolm!" she shouts, but she can already see that he's still fast asleep and in the grips of a night terror. "Malcolm!" She tries again, knowing full well that if throwing himself out a window didn't wake him, chances are slim that calling his name will do anything at all.

She doesn't think she can possibly be more terrified, watching her son — her first born child — balanced precariously on the cusp of life and death.

And then he begins to thrash and scream, the horrors of his mind playing out in his head in high definition, trapping him inside with no hope of escape.

It's at that point that she gets her first taste of true terror.

"Adolpho! Call 9-1-1." Her voice trembles as she calls over her shoulder, never for a second tearing her eyes away from Malcolm's jerking form. 

His terrified screams rain down, more jagged and cutting than the glass of the window, piercing Jessica to the core. It's been years since she's witnessed Malcolm in the throes of a night terror, but she's instantly transported back to the years after Martin was arrested, when the nightmares first began.

They'd been pervasive and horrible right from the start, but it wasn't until Malcolm was around 15 or 16 that the true night terrors commenced. The first time she had to strap him to the bed — after he'd raced out of his room the previous night, running from his demons until he ended up throwing himself down the stairs — she calmly made sure he was settled and then locked herself in her en suite and retched until there was nothing left but bile.

That same nausea is crawling through her stomach and up her throat as she watches Malcolm sway and slam against the brick wall, his body contorting to fight off whatever ghosts are currently haunting his sleep. And all she can do is stand there and hope against hope that the strap that's keeping him suspended is strong enough to hold until help arrives.

The wail of sirens pulls Jessica from the painful memories and constant stream of worst-case scenarios that are filling her mind, and she looks away from Malcolm long enough to note the fire trucks racing down the street. As the firefighters jump down from the rig, her eyes dart back to Malcolm, watching helplessly as he fights harder with every minute that passes. She can't see the jagged edge of glass that's slicing through his arm with every move he makes, but even from where she's standing, she can make out the blood that's flowing over his skin where the sleeve of his pyjamas has ridden up. Most of the blood is absorbed by his shirt, but droplets rain down now and again, splattering the sidewalk in lurid splashes of red, a warning of what's to come if he isn't rescued soon.

"Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to step back," a deep voice cuts into her thoughts and Jessica lowers her gaze to find a firefighter, probably Malcolm's age, trying to shoo her back from the scene.

"I will do no such thing," voice pitched low in righteous indignation. "That is my son up there," she stabs a finger up to Malcolm's whimpering form, "and I will remain in this exact spot until you _bring him down._ Is that understood?"

Whether he sympathizes with her plight or simply decides she's not worth the battle, she's thankful for the hesitant nod she receives from the man.

"Can you tell me what happened?" he asks, both of their gazes following the line of bricks up to Malcolm's form as the drone of the ladder extending from the top of the firetruck hums through the air.

"He threw himself out the window." There's a note of hysteria in her voice that takes her by surprise and acts as a warning that she needs to rein it in before she's forced to leave. She takes a deep breath as she watches the ladder extend from the truck to just beside Malcolm's body as he continues to twist and thrash, indistinct shouts of terror ripping from his throat. "He suffers from night terrors," she explains, trying to keep her emotions from boiling over, but her voice still breaks as she says, "he's asleep."

The firefighter shoots her a surprised glance and steps away, speaking into his radio as he goes, a crackle of words that bounces between the radios of all the responders on the scene. Jessica has already forgotten about him, though, as she watches another firefighter cautiously climbing up the ladder to where her son is fighting so hard his body slams against the unforgiving brick of the building.

Her heart beats in fits and starts as she watches the brawny man make his way up the ladder, inching closer and closer to Malcolm, clearly weary about his task. It takes everything in her power to stay rooted to her spot and not go rushing after him herself, angry at the man's tentative movements even if she understands the need for him to approach cautiously. 

There's a very real possibility that things could go horribly wrong.

When the firefighter finally approaches Malcolm's side, Jessica is so queasy from the adrenaline that's pooling in her stomach that she's worried she may vomit on the sidewalk like a common drunkard.

She holds her breath as the firefighter reaches out to secure a line around Malcolm's body, unaware that Malcolm's struggling has caused the jagged glass around the edge of the window to saw through the leather restraint that's holding him in place. When Malcolm flinches violently back from the man's touch, the strap gives way as the glass rips through the remainder of the leather, and Malcolm's body drops like a dead weight.

Jessica's scream is abruptly cut off as the firefighter plunges dangerously over the edge of the ladder and grabs hold of Malcolm's mangled wrist. The man is perched precariously on the edge of the metal, half of his body dangling on the wrong side of the ladder as he holds tightly to Malcolm's limp form. 

For the first time in 20 years, Jessica prays.

She prays that Malcolm lives to see another day. That the firefighter can maintain his grip on Malcolm's blood-slick wrist. That Malcolm doesn't start fighting against the vice-like hold that's keeping him alive.

For the first time in 20 years, Jessica thinks that, perhaps, someone is out there listening.

The other firefighters move in a perfectly synchronized dance, hurrying to secure their teammate and relieve him of his burden, and in a matter of minutes Malcolm is being lowered onto a stretcher, a pair of paramedics bent over his lax body. Jessica rushes to his side, the heels of her pumps tapping loudly on the sidewalk as she moves. 

She's not sure what exactly they've injected him with, but by the time she makes her way through the crowds of emergency personnel, they've already started an IV line, and Malcolm is groggily coming to.

"Malcolm! Are you alright?" Jessica calls out, stopping next to Malcolm's head, mostly out of the way of the paramedics that are giving him a quick once over before moving to load him into the ambulance.

"Mother?" Malcolm asks, a storm of confusion clouding his face. Thankfully, he stays still and lets the paramedics work on bandaging his wrist and arm as best they can around the shards of glass that are embedded in his skin.

"It's okay, baby," she says quietly, running her fingers lightly through Malcolm's hair, assuring them both that he's perfectly safe now, even if the adrenaline that's still flooding her system is trying to trick her into believing otherwise. "Everything's alright now."

A clarity slowly bleeds into Malcolm's eyes as he realizes what must have happened, a faint blush spreading over his cheeks as the embarrassment settles in. Jessica knows better than anyone how deeply Malcolm despises having his 'weaknesses' paraded for the world to see, so she understands just how much the whole situation must be grating at his already frayed nerves. She does her best to block him from the view of the gawking crowds that had gathered at the commotion, and he offers her a small but genuine smile for her efforts.

After an initial assessment by the medics that determines there are no major injuries requiring immediate medical treatment, and after Malcolm forcefully declares that he doesn't need to go to the hospital and can debride the wound himself, they disconnect the IV, and reluctantly help him off the stretcher.

Jessica huffs out a breath but knows better than to argue. Her son is possibly the most stubborn person she's ever known, which is a feat in itself, considering the social circles to which she used to belong, back before Martin's arrest. She knows that once he's made up his mind, there's no swaying him.

And so she waits with him in the back of the town car for a locksmith to show up and let them into the building, pointedly _not_ mentioning that if he hadn't changed his locks, they could already be inside. There will be time for recriminations soon enough, but she understands that the back of a car, surrounded by emergency vehicles, is perhaps not the ideal time for 'I told you so.’

So instead, they sit in silence as they wait, Jessica keeping a light hold on Malcolm's hand to remind herself that he's truly alright as she reflects on how much less stress there was in managing her properties before Malcolm returned to New York and took up residence in the loft. Though she loves her son dearly, she considers for a moment how much easier it would be to evict him and lease the space to a business of some sort.

Perhaps a Panera.


End file.
